Hot Mess
by In Walked Luck
Summary: He's bleeding from the mouth, taunting you into hitting him again, and you can't stop thinking about kissing him. SLASH.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own _The Outsiders_.

**Warning:** Heavy, heavy, _heavy_ language, sexual situations, and slash. You have been warned.

* * *

The first time you catch him with Sylvia is when you realise just how much he gets to you. His shirt's off, his pants are hanging far too low on his hips, and he's fucking her senseless against the bathroom sink at Buck's. But it's not her wanton moans that have you gritting your teeth and pretending the tightening in your jeans isn't really there. It's his.

It's his heavy panting - ragged, torn, desperate; it's the way his hips rock as he moves inside of Sylvia - quick, fluid, smooth; and it's the way he looks up, catching your gaze in the mirror, and staring at you - smirk on his lips, eyes hazy, a rough growl ripping from his throat as he comes inside of her, still staring at you.

There's teasing in that smirk. An I'm-getting-laid-and-you're-not kind of teasing, or maybe an I-hope-you're-enjoying-the-free-show kind of teasing that only works when it comes from Dal. But you're not sure it's the smirk that really teases you; you think it might be everything else about him.

You leave then - grab the easiest girl you can find, and fuck her against the wall in an upstairs bedroom. The image of Dallas and Sylvia won't leave your head, and you try to concentrate on Sylvia - the way her head was thrown back in pleasure, the way her tits bounced into your view every few seconds, the way her nails dug into Dally's bare back.

But it's then, thinking about Dal's bare back - the skin, the sweat, the tensing muscles - that you come. You come hard, and you're not sure you've ever come this hard before.

xxxxx

The first time he touches you in a way that you consider far too friendly is after a fight with some punk who was saying shit about Angel. The fight went in your favor - hardly surprising considering the other guy looked to be about twelve - and everyone else has already gone back inside Buck's. It's just the two of you left outside, standing in the near-empty parking lot, staring at each other.

"You've lost your touch," he says, and his voice is unusually low. "You actually let that kid get in a punch or two."

You shrug, not bothering to say anything to his half-assed attempt at pissing you off.

"He got you good," Dal continues, stepping forward. "You're bleeding."

There's wet warmth on your chin, and you wipe it away with the back of your hand. "Ain't nothin'."

Dallas nods. "Just a split lip." He reaches up, pressing the pad of his thumb against your lip, and your blood runs cold. When he pulls back, there's a bright smudge of crimson on his pale skin, but he doesn't seem to care. "Hurt much?"

"S'nothin'." Your voice comes out breathier than you like. Fuck this shit.

He nods again, a hint of a smirk on his lips as he turns and heads inside. And even though you hate yourself for it, you lick your lips and you're sure you can taste his skin on your own.

xxxxx

The first time you touch him and wish to fuck you weren't, is just after he's been in a fight with some guy from Brumly. You watched the fight, ready and willing to jump in and help Dal if he needed you to, all the while wondering how someone so fucked in the head can move so damn well.

You try to forget that as you stare down at him. The Brumly guy's taken off, but Dally's still lying on the ground, panting. You think he might have a cracked rib, but all you can really concentrate on is the sound of his breathing and the way it makes your stomach clench.

Forcing a smirk, you reach out, offering him a hand up that you know - cracked rib or not - he doesn't need or want. But maybe he does want it, because he smirks back and grips your hand, letting you pull him to his feet. And he doesn't let go. He keeps your hand in his for a few moments longer than he needs to - longer than he should - and you hope like hell he can't fell how badly you're sweating.

xxxxx

The next time you catch him with Sylvia, you can't help but wonder if it's a set up, because really, why the fuck else would he have her sprawled out on the hood of your car in the parking lot of Buck's? You suppose it's just lucky for Sylvia that the roadhouse is so damn quiet tonight; she'd have quite the audience otherwise.

You only just notice who's doing what and where when Dally catches your gaze. This time his smirk is different. It's still teasing, but not an I-hope-you're-enjoying-the-free-show-of-my-girlfriend's-tits kind of teasing. This teasing - this smirk - has nothing to do with Sylvia and you know it. It's him and it's you and it's fucking. Sylvia just happens to be in the way.

So you wait. You lean against a car close by and watch Dallas slowly fuck his girlfriend, taking his time just to mess with you. And when he stares at you his eyes are just as hazy as last time, and you stare right back until he's done and telling Sylvia to get lost. She looks both put out and far too drunk to give a shit. You smirk at Dallas, trying not to fidget.

"Good lay?"

Dally raises an eyebrow. "Sure is. I can call 'er back if ya want, and you can have a go of your own."

"No thanks, she ain't my type."

He smirks, only then doing up his jeans. "No kiddin'."

xxxxx

The next time he touches you is in a way you really don't have the fucking patience for. A fight with Dally is nothing you can't handle, and you've done it so many times before that you've lost count, but this time is different because this time you know he's messing with you.

He's been giving you looks all night, he's been throwing snide comments in your direction all night, and he's been fucking drinking his weight in alcohol all night. You can't be fucked with that. He's not one of your boys; it's not up to you to look after him. If anything, it's up to you to kick his ass.

And you begin to do exactly that when he slaps you upside the head on his way back from the bathroom. Ignoring the smirk on his lips when you stand, you punch him in the mouth as payback. He pauses, not punching back, but licking at the tear in his lip and staring at you. Your mouth goes dry. You watch, remembering the way he had touched your own split lip and feeling a strange urge to repay that favour with your own tongue.

Dally raises an eyebrow at you, and when he talks, his voice is husky and raw. "That all you got, Shepard?"

A part of you wants to flip him off, tell him to go fuck himself, and leave, because you're such a fucking mess. He's bleeding from the mouth, taunting you into hitting him again, and you can't stop thinking about kissing him.

You're a fucking mess.

xxxxx

The next time you touch him in a way that you really know you shouldn't, is when you're both drunk off your damn asses and he's staring at you. He's been staring at you for the last few minutes while you bitch about some broad who refuses to put out. You bitch and moan and pretend you care, and Dal just watches you.

Finally, you get sick of it and glare at him. He grins and you roll your eyes, but when he moves from where he's sitting against the door to lean against the bed with you, you suck in a breath. You're touching, and your skin feels tight all over. His shoulder brushes against yours, the tip if his boot occasionally knocks against your own, and your thighs are pressed together so fucking hotly that you can't suck in anymore breaths because you can't fucking breathe.

And your gaze is stuck on his jeans - on the rip in the denim that shows a thin line of his hot, pale skin. Your hand moves before you can think, and so slowly that you feel like a fucking girl, you stroke it. Just the very tip of your finger, running over the smooth skin that burns you everywhere and sets your skin alight.

Dal says nothing, but you think you might hear him choke out a grunt. Jumping to your feet, you leave the room and avoid him for a week.

xxxxx

The last time you catch him with Sylvia is different. She's on her knees, doing something not many girls are willing to do, and she's fully dressed. Dally, on the other hand, has no shirt on, and his jeans are around his ankles. You can see nearly everything - so, _so_ much pale skin - and you want to see more.

He sees you. Almost right away his gaze locks with yours and this time, there's no smirk. He doesn't smirk at you to tease you and make you uncomfortable, he just stares, not once hiding how much he's enjoying what Sylvia's doing to him. Eyes hazy, lips parted, and cheeks flushed, he lazily threads his fingers into Sylvia's hair and watches you.

You wait it out, cock hardening and palms itching, and Dally seems to realise your discomfort. He licks his lips, blinks away the haze, and glances at your jeans. Then he smirks, nodding slighting. He knows what you want and now you know what he wants and you're not about to waste any fucking time.

Moments later, Dal's gaze is on you and what you're doing and he's coming in Sylvia's mouth. You follow instantly.

xxxxx

The last time he touches you in a way you hate yourself for loving so fucking much, is when you've got him backed into a hallway corner upstairs at Buck's. Fucking prick's been messing with your boys and you're about ready to give him a piece of your mind.

You yell, you push, you stare down at him because you've always liked that he was a couple of inches shorter than you, and the son of a bitch does nothing but take it - smirking at you like he's the one with the upper hand. He's not, or maybe he is - just the look he's giving you makes you so hard that you ache - but it doesn't matter either way. He's gonna get what's coming to him.

"Stop with the fucking bullshit," you hiss, wondering if you're talking about the way he messes with your boys or the way he messes with you.

He raises an eyebrow. "Or what?"

"Or you won't be able to walk for a week."

There's a grin playing at his lips, and you can't help but stare. You're standing so close that there only inches between you - between your lips and his, and his breath mixes with yours in that small space. You don't care for whiskey, but when it's just a hint of flavour on his breath, his lips, his tongue …

You hate yourself for getting so damn angry and standing too damn close.

And he doesn't answer. Instead, you feel his long fingers pressing against your stiff cock - gentle and firm all at once - and you hiss in a breath.

"I could take that one of two ways, Shepard," he says.

His fingers are barely moving, but he's driving you crazy.

"What the fuck are you doin'?" You try to growl at him, but your voice is a strangled whisper. And not once do you consider moving away and punching him in the face like you know you should.

Dallas just grins at you, presses that little bit harder, and nips at your jaw. Heat shoots up your spine, and you come quickly, in your jeans, just like a fucking kid.

xxxxx

The last time you touch him in a way that you wish you could regret is when he storms into your room at Buck's. He looks ready to beat the shit out of you until he notices what you're doing and where your hand is. Then he just grins, licks his lips, and unbuttons his jeans.

"Don't stop," he murmurs.

Heart pounding, you don't stop. You lean back against the wall and continue the up-and-down strokes you had been doing when he barged in. He matches your speed as he watches you, and you hate yourself. You hate yourself for not even glancing at Sylvia when you catch the two of them, you hate yourself for everything you're letting him do to you, and you hate yourself for not being able to look away from his pumping fist.

But most of all, you hate that the feel of your own hand with all it's skin, sweat, and spit is nothing compared the barely there touches of his long fingers through the denim of your jeans. No amount of wanking has made you feel that good, and it was the only thing on your mind before he barged into your room.

And now he's right in front of you, staring at you, turning you into some kind of burning mess. You meet his gaze for a moment, before lowering it again.

"Go on," he whispers. "You know you want to."

You do want to and he wants you to and you're going to stop feeling so shitty about this because if it feels good then it must be good for you and you just _can't fucking stop_. He rests his hands against the wall behind you, one of either side of your head, while his own head lowers to watch you. Letting go of yourself, you reach out and touch him and he feels hot and hard, burning into the skin of your hand in a way that leaves you both panting. And he grunts, thrusting into your fist, and coming all over your hand with such an intensity that you're shocked.

You swallow. "What the fuck are you doin' to me?" you whisper.

Blinking in the afterglow, he gives you a lazy smirk. "Nothin' bad." And with that, he drops to his knees and his mouth is on you and you could die. Just fucking die.

Instead, you grip at his hair and forget why you hate yourself. You're a fucking mess.

* * *

**A/N:** Though I understand the emotional distress these guys could have been under - especially in that time period - this was written purely for fun. Feedback is appreciated.


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